The Escape

I gasp in horror as I glance into the living room. The plant in front of the fireplace has been tipped over and there’s soil all over the rug. One of Elise’s nappies is on the floor in front of the TV, open and dirty with a Peppa Pig doll face down in the poo. The coffee table is stacked with dirty plates and mugs and the wine bottle I shared with Max is lying on its side, the dregs staining the cream rug red. This isn’t how I left the house. What the hell’s happened?

‘Max?’ I tighten my grip on Elise and back out of the room. My voice rings through the house, but no one answers me.

In the kitchen clothes are spilling out of the washing machine and onto the floor. A tin lies on its side on the work surface, spilling orange beans, and a thick gloop sauce has dripped onto the cupboard below. There are coffee granules, sugar and bread crumbs covering the chopping board. Beyond the food preparation bar, on the kitchen table all the washing I neatly folded and placed into a washing basket has been tipped onto the floor and chairs.

Paula must have come back.

I back out of the kitchen and glance up the stairs. I stand very still, barely breathing. Is she still here, standing silently in my bedroom, waiting for me to make my next move? Where’s Max? He said he’d be here. What if he is? What if he was here when she broke in? A cold chill runs through my body and I jolt backwards. My heel catches on something, forcing me off balance, and I tip to the side. Elise screeches as I release one hand to steady myself against the wall. I have to get out of here.

Charter 18

I barrel out of the house with Elise in my arms, slam the door behind me and smack straight into something – or someone – solid.

‘Woah!’ An older woman with short, dyed red hair and a wide face lurches away from me.

‘Are you OK?’ She hitches her handbag and tote back onto her shoulder. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

I want to get as far away from the house as I can but she’s blocking the path, effectively trapping me between the bay window and the low wall that separates our house from Naija’s. Elise screams in my ear and tightens her grip around my neck, making it hard for me to breathe.

‘Please.’ I hold up a hand, warning the woman not to get any closer. ‘Please just let me go.’

‘It’s OK.’ She takes a step back and raises both hands. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Her brow furrows. ‘You are Jo Blackmore, aren’t you? I’m Lorraine Hooper. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

Relief floods through me as she says her name. I thought she was someone Paula sent round to threaten me. In my haste to get out of the house I completely forgot why I came home in the first place.

‘I …’ I set Elise down on her feet and take her hand. ‘I …’

‘Would you like to sit down for a second,’ – Lorraine gestures towards the wall – ‘and get your breath back? Then you can tell me what’s happened.’

‘The house. The house …’ I fight to control my breathing but the harder I try the more ragged it becomes. My heart’s pounding and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

‘What’s wrong with the house?’ She takes a step to her left and approaches the bay window, then stoops to peer inside. The stoic expression on her face morphs into concern.

‘It’s a little messy,’ she says, giving me what I’m sure she thinks is an understanding look. ‘But that’s OK. We all let the housework go when we’ve got a lot on our plate. Is your husband at home?’

‘I don’t … I don’t …’

Frustration rages inside me. Why can’t she see what’s happened? My house isn’t ‘a little messy’. It’s been ransacked and my husband is in danger. I need to ring the police but I can’t speak. I can’t fucking speak.

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